let the sun inside
by eyesontheskyline
Summary: After the unfortunate incident with the ashes and the weeping by the side of the road, Nathaniel goes to see Rebecca. Rebecca/Nathaniel, a canon divergent fix-it of sorts set post-ep 4x06.
1. Chapter 1

By the time he knocks her door, he has very nearly talked himself out of this. The sting of her rejection – _rejections_, plural, he can't help reminding himself – is still fresh. It winds tight around his chest and aches in the back of his throat in this uncomfortable, embarrassing way that will not allow him to forget that he cried on the side of the road, covered in the dusty remains of the only other person who ever really loved him, in front of a woman who seconds earlier had told him she'd never even liked him. But he has been such an idiot, and he can't tell whether the urge comes from his conscience or his ego, but either way he owes Rebecca an apology. So he stands on her step and knocks on her door, shakes the nervous energy out of his hands. And he only thinks for the briefest of moments about turning tail and getting back in his car, now fully charged and waiting on the street for him.

He hears her on the other side of the door the moment before it opens and tries to prepare himself, but the sight of her still kind of knocks the breath out of him. Pleasantly dishevelled in an oversized sweater and shorts, hair pulled back in a coppery ponytail, she tilts her head to the side, her confusion and curiosity written all over her face. She's so expressive in all the ways he has always tried not to be. "You look -" she begins, her eye contact intense and searching, but she shakes off the end of the sentence and steps back. "Hi. Come in. Sit down."

He didn't realise a part of him was expecting her to slam the door in his face until that moment, but the relief is short lived, quickly replaced by a painful self-awareness as he steps over her threshold. "Thanks," he says, hovering uncertainly inside the apartment. He feels his fingers flexing at his sides, stretches them out and takes a breath. "Um, hi."

"Hi," she repeats, leading the way to the living room. She sits back against the arm of the sofa with her legs crossed in front of her, pats the other seat, and he sits, perching on the edge. He meets her curious gaze for less than a second before it starts to crack him open – he looks across the room instead to where Estrella sits in her aquarium on an end table. He can't believe it, but he kind of wishes Heather was here. She would have no trouble starting this conversation – easing her way into things is not something she concerns herself with.

"So I've had a day," Nathaniel begins, talking to the starfish.

Rebecca lets out a small, surprised laugh. "Yeah," she says. "I have also had a day."

And he doesn't know where to go from there. He doesn't know how to bridge the gap between yelling at each other in the lobby of their workplaces and sitting here on her sofa. He doesn't know how to tell her that trying to win her back like it was a competition to win a big client was a backslide toward a person he did not want to be, how to tell her that he was trying, _really trying _to be better but when it hurts to breathe, to open his eyes, to get out of bed in the morning, sometimes the only way he knows how to go on is in survival mode – all ruthlessness and hard edges and distance. Everything she shattered to rubble around him and left him defenceless. She doesn't deserve the guilt she would feel if he said it, and either way, he's not sure he's capable of actually saying the words. He swallows hard around the ache in his throat and says the only thing he can manage. "Can you tell me about your day?"

"Yeah," she says quietly. "Yeah, we can do that." But she doesn't, and the longer he sits there in the silence, feeling her eyes on him, the harder it gets to stop himself from reliving their last interaction, replaying the anger and pain and regret of it in minute detail, the flare of betrayal in her face, and it builds and builds in his stomach and before he knows what he's doing, he's standing up.

"I'm sorry," he says, rubbing a hand over his face, feeling like a prime idiot, wanting to claw his stupid eyes out for starting this, for thinking for a minute he was equipped for this conversation. "I'm sorry, this was stupid – I should've texted you or something, I shouldn't just show up -"

"Hey," Rebecca says, sounding alarmed. "Hey, no, what's going on with you? You seem… Rattled. Like, really rattled. And it's fine. I'm the queen of rattled, and of showing up at doors I shouldn't show up at. You've got nothing on me, man. Can you just tell me what's going on?" He closes his eyes and she adds uncertainly, "You know, for context?"

He looks toward the door, hearing his heart in his ears, feeling the thrum of anxiety build in his chest. These are the moments he feels cornered and lashes out. He runs his hands through his hair, then sits heavily back down on the sofa. He turns toward her. Her expression is exactly what he expected, all intense focus and eyebrows pulled together with concern, and it crushes him a little. "I accidentally spent the day with Heather," he says.

Evidently, Rebecca wasn't expecting that – her eyebrows shoot toward her hairline. "Wow," she says, looking him over. Then, like she's only half joking, "And what the hell did she do to you?"

He lets out an involuntary breath that could be a laugh or a sob, his throat aching, determined he is at least not going to start this conversation a total wreck. He takes a breath, looking away. "I tried to get somewhere in a rush and my car wasn't charged. So she picked me up from the side of the road in her shitty car," he says, looking down at his hands, picking at the thumbnail he bit down on the drive over. "Then her shitty car broke down. Then she told me she's always hated me because I'm a dick and I'm terrible to people, and then she threw an envelope of the closest thing I had to an actual parent all over both of us and I cried a lot and she seemed to hate me less. And I realised I have been a dick, and I owe you an apology, and now I'm here. Well, and I changed my shirt, and got my car back."

"Ohhh," Rebecca says, processing. "Ohh – can we circle back to the envelope, because I didn't quite -?"

"Heidi," he says, and just like last time, saying the name out loud tightens his throat so it takes all his effort to steady his voice, to push past the pain of it and form words. "She was my au pair – she basically raised me when my parents were – whatever – and her ashes were…" He shakes his head, closing his eyes, feeling the prickle of tears and the creeping shame that accompanies it. There's no way to explain Heidi without telling Rebecca nobody else has ever loved him, and he knows that's too much. "It was an accident," he adds meekly, trying to cover the missing end of the sentence. "The throwing, I mean – Heather. She didn't mean to. Obviously. That's not really the point."

"Oh man," Rebecca says quietly. "_That is_ a day." She puffs out a breath. "Oh, Nathaniel, I'm so sorry."

Then she's reaching toward him, kneeling on the sofa cushion beside him, and as her arms wrap around him it hits him square in the chest that this is what he misses most about her: she's so physical, so tactile. His world feels so big and empty without her. She touches so easily, and he realises as he clings to the fabric of the sweater at her back that Heather's awkward shoulder pat was the closest thing he'd felt to physical affection in far too long. He buries his face in Rebecca's shoulder, mumbles, "I'm sorry," far too quietly for her to hear. The impulse to pull her into his lap is strong, to wrap her legs around him and feel the spread of his hands over her back, the pull of her thighs around his waist. He wants her so badly – the muscle memory of the time they've spent together is still there, in the response of his body to hers, the crackle of the air around them, but mostly he just wants the warm, comforting weight of her. He chews at his lip, knows he's too close to a line she's drawn all too clearly – he's taking something she's told him he can't have, and it's the opposite of what he's here to do. He pulls back a touch, clearing his throat – she jumps back to her end of the sofa like she's spring loaded, her eyes wide and her cheeks flushed. Her breaths come a little quicker, and she pulls a leg up in front of her and wraps her arms around it, her expression still soft and sad.

"I'm sorry," he says again, louder. He can feel his lip starting to tremble and bites down on it. He can't quite suppress the wave of shame that washes over him, the insults in his father's voice, every messed up saying he has about crying and real men and showing weakness… He clears his throat again, lets his eyes flicker to hers and back down to his hands, his fingers tapping together. "I have been a dick. I've been terrible. You were right, Rebecca, I've been all the worst parts of me. Nasty and manipulative and scheming and trying to throw money at every problem, but it was never because of you. You don't bring out the worst in me, you -" His voice gets away from him and he stops abruptly, because he's reaching the point of no return, and he hasn't actually made his point yet. "Just a minute," he murmurs, hand over his face.

"All the time you need," she replies, her voice barely above a whisper, and she slides her foot toward him, wedges it under his thigh. For some reason, it's comforting.

He takes a breath, feels all the places it catches in his chest, and fights it, like he always has. "You," he says slowly, testing out his voice and finding it holds, "bring out the best in me. It's not your fault that I've been…" He trails off, takes a shaking breath.

"A dick," she supplies, but her voice is gently playful, and she wiggles her toes under his leg.

"Yeah," he breathes, meeting her eyes with a grateful smile. "Rebecca, I don't want to be bad for you."

She closes her eyes, shakes her head. "I didn't mean -" she begins.

"You did," he insists. "And I know why you said it. But it isn't inevitable. You're not bad for me – my total lack of coping strategies and inability to be vulnerable is bad for me." She raises her eyebrows. Shrugging, he says, "Heather's smart."

"Ah. Yeah. Yeah, she is. Sometimes it's the worst."

He shakes his head, amazed at the smile pulling at the corner of his lips, and she takes his hand. He finally relaxes into the sofa, leaning back and angling himself slightly toward her, his thumb absently tracing over and over her knuckles. They sit in silence until he can trust his voice again. "I've been unfair," he says tightly. "I wanted…" He looks around the room and back at her, the soft grey blue of her eyes almost painful to look at in this uncertain, tenuous place. "I wanted us being in love to stop us from being so screwed up. I wanted to pick you up in my arms and fly you to Rome or Hawaii or just anywhere else and make everything okay. I wanted to be able to do that for you, and I thought if you'd just… Cooperate… Then you'd do it for me too." She winces, and he can't blame her. "I'm sorry for putting that on you, Rebecca," he says, and he has never meant anything more. "I'm sorry for putting your actual recovery behind my screwed up notion we'd fix each other. You deserve better, and I –" he hesitates, feeling for the line. "I want to be better."

Wide eyed, chewing her lip, she looks back at him, clearly processing. Then, nodding slowly, she says, "I almost kissed Darryl today."

"You _what_?"

"We had a moment," she says, and there's a kind of pleading look on her face, like she's willing him to understand. "Just a nice, quiet moment. I was just trying to have a day that wasn't about self-reflection and personality disorders and workbooks, and Darryl and I went for barbecue. And everything was super tense at first, because I wanted him to be someone he isn't and he wanted me to be an actually good friend, and then I snapped, and he was honest with me and I was honest with him, and we just had a_ really great day_ together." She shrugs, tapping her fingers on the back of his hand for a moment, thinking. "We ate a lot of food and had fun, and he was so sweet and funny and _kind_, and he actually loves me. He sees my flaws and he calls me out on them, and he loves me anyway. And I felt safe and happy, and there was this moment where I guess… I guess I thought _this is what I want_." She pauses thoughtfully. "But like, not with Darryl," she adds, scrunching her nose. "Never that."

The image is too surreal to really trigger any jealousy in him, or maybe that would just be one too many emotions for his stunted brain to feel all at once. "That's all I've ever wanted for you," he says numbly, the ache in his throat and sting in his eyes reaching the danger zone. "To feel safe and happy. I want…" _I want it for me too_, he thinks, but can't say it, because there are tears sliding down his face and a sob building in his chest, and it's all he can do to stop himself from clamming up completely. It was one thing weeping all over Heather – she hated him already. Doing it here, with Rebecca, where the stakes always feel so stupidly high, where a part of him is always scrambling for control, is a whole new kind of painful.

"Is this -" she begins, in playful disbelief. "Is this… Actually happening?"

"Shut up," he says, smiling in spite of himself, and she grabs him around the shoulders and pulls him toward her, and he's lying awkwardly half on her sofa, cheek on her chest, his arms tight around her. Her fingers start combing through his hair, which his tear ducts seem to take as licence to ugly cry – he feels small and stupid and vulnerable and his snot is on her sweater, but he also feels like the ball of dread he's had knotted in his stomach since she turned down Hawaii has lifted. This is what he's been afraid of – showing her this. And it's here, and so is she.

"God, Nathaniel, Heather really did a number on you," she says, but it barely registers. "You're okay," she whispers, and he thinks she's crying too. Her fingers brush his scalp lightly, and in another context it would be arousing, but he's drowning and she's keeping him afloat and he has no room to want anything more from her. He buries his face in her sweater. "You're okay," she tells him, over and over, and he feels it more than hears it.

"You're saying _okay_a lot," he says, when he starts to think he can trust his voice again. It comes out raw, but clear, and she laughs, a surprised little sound.

"Yeah," she says. "I am. I guess it's what I'd want to hear: you're okay."

"Thank you."

"It's -" She catches herself and laughs. "You're welcome."

He stays there a beat longer, not wanting to let go of her, but knowing this moment of warmth and safety can't last. Whatever is next, she has the right to choose, and it can't be because she feels sorry for him. He starts to sit up, to pull away, to wipe his face with his sleeve, then her finger hooks under his chin and tilts his face up to hers, and her eyes flit to his lips and back.

"Rebecca -"

"I want to be better together," she whispers, and the air is electric again.


	2. Chapter 2

"Rebecca," he says again, and it comes out barely above a whisper. Her breath on his lips is a thousand things, distracting prime among them, and there are so many great reasons not to do this right now. She pulls her lip between her teeth, her eyes shining and cheeks flushed, and it would take the tiniest movement to press his lips to hers, and he is so aware that this could destroy him. "Can we – can we take a minute?" he suggests.

"Yeah," she says quickly. "Yeah, of course." They scramble upright, and after a second's hesitation, she climbs into his lap, straddling him, both of them doing their level best to ignore the fact that his body is significantly more ready for this encounter than his brain is. "This okay?" she asks, and he nods, resting his hands on her thighs. Hers rest on his forearms, their breathing still in the awkward, trembling, post-meltdown phase, and she looks so damn beautiful it shouldn't be allowed. She pulls the sleeves of her sweater over her hands and uses them to wipe the tears from her cheeks, then before he can protest, does the same to him. He laughs self-consciously, horribly aware of how entirely undone he is right now. "I know I've hurt you," she says quietly. "Like…" She cringes. "Repeatedly."

He opens his mouth to protest, although on what basis he can't imagine – he just can't stand the deep sadness in her eyes – but her hands come up to rest on his shoulders and she shakes her head the tiniest amount and says simply, "I'm really sorry, Nathaniel."

"It's okay," he says reflexively, reaching up to cup her face in his hand, brushing a thumb along her cheek.

"It isn't," she replies, holding his hand there for a second then bringing it to her lips and kissing his palm. A shiver runs up his spine and he absurdly thinks _I don't get goosebumps_ as they blossom up his arms. She places his hand back on her thigh, making searching eye contact, and he looks steadily back at her, the air crackling between them. "The way I treated you wasn't okay," she says, "and I need you to know that I know that. I had a lot going on, some of which explains some of my behaviour, but none of which excuses any of it, and I used you, over and over, to avoid dealing with all the worst parts of myself. And I hurt you. And I'm really sorry."

It would have never occurred to him that he needed to hear it, but as soon as he does, his hesitation melts away. He wraps his arms around her back, pulls her into him, makes an involuntary, ridiculous sound in the back of his throat as their hips align, and their lips meet and everything else disappears. The heat of her breath against his mouth is intoxicating, her fingertips pressing into the back of his neck, her teeth nipping at his lip and his hips involuntarily tilting up. Breathing hard, she pulls back for long enough to pull her tear-soaked sweater over her head and drop it on the floor by his feet. She starts to lean back down, but he holds her there for a second, his hands spread over her waist, taking in the flush of her bare chest, the rise and fall of her breasts with each breath. She drops her chin to her chest and looks at him through her eyelashes, doing a terrible job of pretending she could possibly still be shy on top of him, one hand fidgeting with the buttons of his shirt and the other resting low on his stomach.

"You're beautiful," he breathes, and she smiles this glorious, wide open smile, sliding off his lap and taking his hand, pulling him to his feet.

They make it as far as the doorway of her bedroom – he notes closed blinds and Ruth Gator Ginsberg on what he can't help but think of as his side of the bed – before she turns and pounces, her patented flying squirrel move. Lightning reflexes still mostly intact, he crouches a bit to catch her at her thighs and she squeals delightedly as she wraps her legs around his back and he pushes her against the door, clicking it shut and using the extra support to get a better grip on her. Somewhere between the sofa and here, she's taken down her ponytail, and her hair falls in loose, tangled curls around her neck – he nudges it aside with his nose, presses kisses from behind her ear down her jaw, and the breathy little sounds she makes are everything he remembers and more. She wriggles in his arms, shamelessly impatient, searching for the angle she wants, and he grins into her neck. It's a luxury he has missed, having the time to tease her, and he isn't ready to give in yet.

"Nathaniel," she breathes, hooking her feet together behind his back and rolling her hips into him. "Bed."

"Monosyllabic already?" he murmurs, finding her pulse in the hollow under her jaw and kissing there languidly.

"Bragging already?" she replies, but it comes out more like a moan than anything else, and she huffs, her hand coming up to tug at his hair. The sharp not-quite-pain of it fires through him like an electric shock, and his hips press her harder into the door as his eyes flutter shut and his mouth slackens. She takes the advantage, nipping and sucking at his earlobe as her hands find the buttons of his shirt, unbuttoning as far down as she can with their bodies pressed together then sliding her hands under the fabric, over his chest and between his shoulder blades. "Bed," she repeats, low in his ear, and drowning in sensation, he relents, firming up his grip under her thighs and stumbling to her bed. He drops her a little more unceremoniously than he'd like, bouncing the stuffed gator onto the floor, but she doesn't seem to notice – she drags him down after her, already occupying herself with the rest of his buttons and pushing the shirt down his arms. "God," she mutters, looking him over, and he follows her gaze stupidly down to his own bare torso.

"What?" he says, a little defensive.

"Who _looks _like that?" she mutters, then grabs for his belt, unbuckling it with laser focus as he awkwardly kicks off his shoes, grudgingly flattered. She reaches for his neck and pulls him down to kiss her again and he's all too willing. As their mouths meet, flawlessly remembering each other, he slides his hand from her hip up over the curve of her stomach, palming her breast, every familiar inch of her skin a revelation.

He finds the waistband of her shorts, hooks a finger under it and tugs experimentally. "Okay?" he checks, and she lets out a strangled laugh, lifts her hips from the bed and he grabs her shorts and underwear and pulls them off in one go. His own jeans are uncomfortably tight at this point – he pulls back and stands to shove them off his hips and she lies there, bare and flushed, staring at him with undisguised want written all over her face, but something else too. Something soft and gentle that burrows into his chest and warms him, steadies him. He settles over her again, nudging her nose with his, sliding a hand from her hip to her knee, back up her inner thigh, and as her breath fans across his mouth he thinks he could happily live in this moment forever. Then her smile turns devilish and she slides her hand into his underwear, wrapping it tight around him, and all thoughts of stillness evaporate from his mind.

He drops down on top of her and she arches up into him, removing her hand from his underwear and scrabbling at the waistband. "Patience," he says, but the crack in his voice gives him away – she laughs delightedly, shoving the underwear off him and pulling his hips flush with hers, tangling their legs together and arching her body into his, grinding hot and slick against his thigh and pulling his face back to hers. They kiss hard and open mouthed, and _fuck _he has missed her. His self-control wearing extremely thin, he reaches a hand down between them, circling her clit with his thumb, and she mutters a breathy string of curses as he slips a finger inside her. "_Yesyesyes_," she whispers, shifting her hips, and he drops his head to her shoulder, kisses along her collarbone, working her higher and higher with the heel of his hand on her clit and his fingers curling inside her.

He can feel her getting close, and he lifts himself up on his forearm to watch her face as she comes apart with a cry, slamming her eyes shut, grabbing at his wrist and pressing his slick fingers hard into her as she moves against him, her whole body trembling. It's intoxicating, the way she relentlessly chases exactly what she wants, her brow furrowed and cheeks flushing, and he's ridiculously, embarrassingly enraptured by her. She slows, shuddering, her eyes flutter open and she reaches up for him, grabs his neck with both hands and pulls him down to kiss her again, slow and satiated. He's painfully hard against her leg but content, breathing her in, his fingers tracing circles on her stomach as she comes down. He has missed her like this – they didn't allow themselves time for afterglow when their relationship was relegated to the storage spaces of public buildings.

The moment she regains her faculties, she's shifting across the bed, reaching for the condoms she keeps in the bedside drawer, and he follows, sits back against the headboard as she tears open the little foil square. She rolls the condom onto him – he barely suppresses a whimper – then reaches down for a throw pillow and offers it to him. "I don't mean to imply I'm going to ride you so hard you get a concussion," she says, and he swallows hard, wedging the pillow behind his head. "But I might."

She throws a leg over his, lines herself up and sinks down onto him with no further preamble – it feels like flawless redemption, like home, like warmth spreading from between his legs to his chest to his stupid lovestruck grief-addled brain. And also like if he isn't careful this is going to be over in seconds. He holds her still, his jaw clenched tight and hands on her hips, and stares at the ceiling and tries to think of nothing as the sensation ripples through him. "Rebecca," he murmurs, as he regains a measure of control and his eyes find hers again. She's looking back at him, waiting, chewing on a smile, clearly enjoying the effect she's having. He brushes his fingertips over the scattering of freckles on her cheek. He can't say it, doesn't know if he should, if this moment can take the words.

"I know," she whispers, rocking her hips the tiniest fraction, and her expression is warm and soft and hopeful, and only a little afraid.

"Good."

She leans in to kiss him, shifting the angle of their bodies to the one that could destroy them both in no time flat, pauses with her parted lips a quarter inch from his, and whispers, "You want this?"

"Yes," he breathes, and she kisses him softly, rolling her hips slowly at first, teasing, and he's already panting, tingling in all kinds of places.

She keeps up the leisurely pace, smiling at the tortured sounds that escape him. He slides a hand up her back, into her hair, and she leans her head back into the touch for a moment before bringing her face back to his. "Nathaniel," she says softly, and he's beyond forming words so he hums in response. "I know I've given you no reason to believe in this," she says. "In us. But I do, okay? I mean that."

His eyes slide shut and he pulls her face to his, and nothing is slow anymore – true to her promise, she makes him grateful for the throw pillow as she rides him, grinding against him hard and fast, kissing sloppy and frantic, and he is losing control, falling apart, his fingers pressing into her back and tangling in her hair, urging her on as his vision starts to sparkle around the edges. "Oh, _fuck_," he breathes, throwing his head back, and she whimpers, clenches around him, her body tightening then trembling as she moans into his neck, and he is a goner, burying his face in her shoulder, his hips jolting up into her as if electrocuted as he comes apart completely.

She falls against his chest and he drapes his arms around her, resting his cheek against the top of her head as the aftershocks roll over them both. Too soon, she hums and pushes herself upright, delicately climbing off of him and stretching out on the mattress beside him, loose and sleepy, with a gratifyingly satiated glow. "You want first pee?" she mumbles. He smiles, kisses her temple as he gets up, grabs his underwear from the floor and finds his way to the bathroom on legs that feel about half as solid as normal.

When he comes back, somewhat more put together, she's sitting up against the headboard, still naked, holding his shirt in her lap and toying with the collar. She looks up at him as he walks in, smiling ruefully. "I was going to put this on," she says. "But I wasn't sure if that was a healthy choice."

Bemused, he sits back down on the bed. "It's clean," he offers.

"Good to know." She smiles at him, then frowns at the shirt. "That's a normal thing to do, right? Post-coital shirt wearing? It's not like, for example… Just stealing your t-shirt to wear under a whole outfit of my own clothes as I go about my day?"

"Ah," he says, catching on at last. "Agreed. Perfectly normal behaviour. In fact -" he holds out his hand " -give me that."

She passes the shirt to him, and he shakes it out and holds it open for her to slip her arms into. Giggling, she does, and he fastens the middle button for her. It does something to his heart, seeing how big his shirt looks on her, the sleeves falling over her hands as she hugs it around herself. "I'll wear your disgusting snotty sweater if it makes you feel better," he offers, as she climbs over him on her way to the bathroom.

"It does not," she replies from the doorway, and he can hear the smile in her voice.

She returns a few minutes later, all fresh face and minty breath, and he shuffles down onto the pillows, holds his arms out for her to climb into. She burrows into him, head on his chest, pulling his arms tight around her. "You're staying, right? Tonight, I mean?"

"Yes, I am," he says, brushing her hair back behind her ear, the intensity of the day settling over him in the form of bone-deep exhaustion as she rests a hand over the centre of his chest and hums in approval. "Sweet dreams, Rebecca."


	3. Chapter 3

He wakes disoriented, his cheek pressed into an unfamiliar pillow, blinking himself awake in the darkness. Rebecca's bedroom comes into focus, still and empty around him, and his first, pathetic thought is that she's gone again. But it's her bed – surely she wouldn't leave her own home in the middle of the night to get away from him, after what she said… He sits, scrubs a hand over his face, wishing that sounded more outlandish to him. His eyes feel like they're full of sand, his face puffy under his palm, and he wonders if this is something you get used to if you're the kind of person who cries at movies.

He wonders if he's becoming the kind of person who cries at movies.

Reaching down to the floor by the bed, he grabs Ruth Gator Ginsberg and brings her to his chest, pressing his face into the fabric and trying to get a handle on the frankly disturbing intensity of his need to get his arms around Rebecca, to reassure himself that he hasn't chased her away with his show of weakness. But the gator smells of her, the scent of her shampoo ringing a Pavlovian bell in him that brings to mind an image of her blinking awake in the dawn light of his apartment, rumpled hair and pillow print cheek, smiling at him like they were the only two people in the world. A week later, she was gone. Sighing, he drops RGG to the floor and gets out of bed.

She's not hard to find – he follows the smell of toasted bread to the kitchen, where she sits at the counter, still in his shirt, chewing a bagel.

"Hey," he says, not quite managing to cover the sigh of relief that escapes him.

"Hi," she replies, spinning to face him fully, all concern and buttery crumbs. "Ohh, I'm sorry, did I wake you? Are you okay?"

He lets his eyes fall shut for a moment, and when he opens them she's crossed the room and stands in front of him, hand on his bare chest, fingertips disconcertingly greasy, looking up at him. His hands reach out for her, magnetically drawn, and pull her into him. She hugs back hard. "Hey," she murmurs, in what he now recognises as her soothing voice.

"I'm okay," he mumbles, his palms spreading over her back, holding as much of her as he can. "I guess I haven't been sleeping well. When I woke up, I thought…" He trails off, because the only ending his brain is supplying is _I thought it happened again_.

She gives him another fierce squeeze then pulls back, looking at him long enough to make him feel a little self-conscious and a lot exposed, standing in her dimly lit kitchen in just his underwear. She tilts her head, a concerned little furrow between her brows. "You want the other half of my bagel?" she offers. "Or your own bagel?"

He grimaces. "I so don't."

"Come on," she wheedles. "Midnight bagels for two screw ups who can't sleep. It's practically why the bagel was invented – it's the perfect nocturnal carbohydrate. Breakfast is just their cover story."

"Uh, I'll pass," he says, stepping past her, ghosting a hand over her waist as he does. "I'll take a midnight glass of water if you've got it?"

"You really never eat your feelings?" she asks, opening the refrigerator and removing a jug of filtered water. He sits at the counter and she slides it along to him, followed by a tall glass.

"I really never do," he replies, and pours some water into the glass. "Thanks," he adds, before taking a sip. She taps her bagel against his glass and takes a bite.

It's not quite true, of course. Apart from a few occasional blips, one of which involved smashing his face on a treadmill and losing a tooth, he just doesn't do it in the traditional sense of candy and carbs and ice cream. Not since before high school sports became the most important thing in the world in his father's eyes. Nathaniel drinks his feelings in green smoothies, bitter and punishing, eats them in the smallest handful of unsalted almonds he can survive the day on before hitting the gym. Instead of saying any of that, he takes a long drink of water, cold and calming and clean.

She tangles her leg around his, munching her bagel, making little sounds of appreciation that he definitely shouldn't find as appealing as he does. "I don't sleep well either," she says as she eats. "My whole life, basically. Hence the bagel habit. I'm sorry I snuck out on you."

He shakes his head. "Don't worry about it."

"Sure you don't want my last bite?"

"Positive."

She pops the last bit of bagel in her mouth, rolls her eyes back in exaggerated pleasure as she eats it. "You want to kiss the butter off my lips?" she suggests, wiggling her eyebrows.

He laughs, scrunches his nose in a way that's supposed to mean _what a totally disgusting idea_, but then she's leaning into him and he kisses her, trailing his tongue over her lower lip, tasting the salted butter on her and definitely not hating it. He lingers a second, combing his fingers through her hair. "Happy?" he murmurs, when she pulls back.

"God, _yes_," she replies in an exaggerated moan, and he rolls his eyes at her. She laughs, takes their dishes to the sink and hops up on the counter beside him, kicking her feet.

"Sleep time?" he suggests.

She hums, thinking about it. "How ready to sleep are you right now?"

"Uh, not especially?" he admits.

"Me either. Let's go to the beach. It's still night time, no traffic. Let's get some air."

He feels his eyebrows raise, his mouth opening a little. He is so sure he didn't actually tell her where he'd been trying to go today, but the whole sobbing into her sweater episode is a bit of a blur in his mind. "Um -"

"If you think it's stupid, just say," she says in a rush. "If you just want to sleep, that's totally okay, we can go another time." It's like a balm, hearing her say _another time_ after so many _never again_s, and he's more than ready to give her what she wants, his mouth already open to reply, but she goes on. "I just… I want to go to the beach with you. And maybe we'll see the sunrise together. But like, not in an overblown romantic gesture way, not like in a glittery way, just…"

"Rebecca," he interrupts, feeling like she's heading down an unproductive path, and she shuts up immediately, cringing like he's going to send her to her room without dessert. "You're still allowed to want to do nice things," he says gently. "Right?"

She visibly relaxes, a smile spreading on her face, her eyes sparkling. "Right," she says. "Yeah. I am. Let's go to the beach!"

He stands. "Let's go. I'm going to need this back," he adds, tugging the sleeve of his shirt at her wrist.

In the car, he considers keeping quiet about his failed trip to Santa Monica, but even with Rebecca leaning against the window, holding his free hand and humming contentedly to herself, he's struggling to keep his mind off it. He knows he has no hope once they're actually there at the ocean, where Heidi wanted him to take her, where she took him a million times and let him be a kid. He steels himself with a breath. "This is where I was going today," he says, as casually as he can, eyes on the road. "Santa Monica. With Heidi's ashes."

"Oh, shit." Rebecca sits up straight, sounding horrified. "Oh god, Nathaniel, you should've said something, we don't have to -"

"No," he says quickly, glancing over at her and giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. "No, it's okay. I never actually made it there – the car and I both broke down… I'd like to go with you."

"Okay… Are you sure?"

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be," he assures her. "I promise. Just as long as you don't mind my issues hijacking your spontaneous drive to the beach."

"_Our_ spontaneous drive," she corrects. "An agreement between two people with complex emotional lives to drive to the beach in the middle of the night. Your issues are welcome here."

He smiles, resting his hand on her thigh. It's comforting, the warmth of her skin through her jeans, and this feels so, so different to speeding along this same road alone, his mind racing with what felt like motivation but turned out to be panic, or sitting in the passenger seat with that envelope clutched to his chest, fighting back tears with biting, judgemental comments.

"Hey," Rebecca says, after a minute or so of silence. "I'm proud of you, you know?"

"I -" he begins, unexpectedly thrown. "Thank you. Nobody has said that to me in a very long time."

"Well, I am," Rebecca says, and he's grateful she doesn't take the opportunity to ask what the hell is wrong with his parents, because he hasn't prepared an answer. "Taking responsibility is hard. Apologies are hard. And having emotions and showing them to people in a way that's actually healthy… I'm proud of you. So… Take that, Plimpton."

He lifts her hand to his lips and kisses it. "Thank you," he says again. "I'm proud of you too." The words feel odd in his mouth – he's entirely certain he has never said them before, and can't remember the last time he heard them. He's chased acceptance his whole life, never considered what it would take to actually make his parents proud when everything he's ever achieved has been laid out like a blueprint in front of him. Endless hoops and endless ways to fail to jump through them correctly. His stomach churns, and he feels a quick but intense stab of guilt about a bagel he didn't eat. "You can put music on," he suggests, hitting the Bluetooth icon on the car stereo. "If you want to, I mean."

"Ha!" she says, digging her phone out of her pocket, accepting the tone shift without comment. "I knew you missed my office music."

"I definitely have not," he lies, poorly. "I'm being a gentleman."

"Well, thank you, kind sir."

He watches out of the corner of his eye as she queues songs, her foot tapping. He feels more comfortable than he has any right to be, the road stretching out in front of him and Rebecca singing along to musicals beside him, clearly in her element despite a notable lack of vocal training. She is visibly delighted when he joins in singing, and it makes him feel warm, cocooned.

He finds a parking spot, takes more time parking than he strictly needs to, because she's halfway through a song and in the zone. She finishes on a big, ambitious, slightly flat note just as he puts the car in park, and leans toward him, head on his shoulder. "You sure you want to do this?" she says. "We don't need to get out. We could just…"

He closes his eyes for a second, grateful for every molecule of her, then presses a kiss to the top of her head and taps her leg decisively. "Let's go."

When they step out of the car, the smell of the ocean is a hundred sense memories slamming into him at once, the guilt of not making it here with the ashes crawling up his throat and settling there. He takes deep breaths of salty air as he gets a jacket and blanket out of the trunk. Rebecca is there when he slams it shut and shrugs the jacket on, hooking a hand into his elbow, leading the way onto the sand. The sky is lightening over the ocean, somebody already paddling out on a surfboard. He's seen this place countless times without Heidi, of course, but never in a world without her. "I'm not familiar with the etiquette," he says, looking out at the horizon and finding it blurring in front of him. "Is there an acceptable number of tears to shed in a day, or is it like a weekly quota…?"

"Oh, you're nowhere near your allowance," she assures him. "Think how much credit you accrued in your years as a heartless sociopath. You've got leeway."

"Good to know."

They spread the blanket on the sand and settle on it – she sits back against his chest, and he holds her there, solid and soft and warm, as they watch the world wake around them, the hazy sky turning lighter. For a while it's the colour of her eyes, and he holds her just a little closer. "You thought I'd bailed, when you woke up," Rebecca says into the silence. It isn't a question, and he scrambles unsuccessfully for an appropriate response. "I'm sorry," she says, so soft it would get lost to the air if he wasn't focused on her so intensely.

"Hey," he says, nudging her temple with his lips. "We have made some terrible decisions. Both of us. But my life is brighter with you in it, Rebecca. I believe in us."

"I do too," she says, twisting around to look at him with sunrise eyes. "I've worked so hard, and I still have a lot of work to do, and I'm terrified, but I really do, Nathaniel. I want to make this work."

"I've been thinking…" he begins, and the rest of the thought gets lost somewhere on the way to his mouth, tangled in the parts of his brain he tries hardest to ignore. _God_. He knows it's the right thing to say, the right thing to do, and he hates that his father's voice is still so damn loud in his mind. He closes his eyes, takes a breath, listens to the ocean and feels the heat of her palm as it settles on his cheek. He thinks probably this was what Heidi wanted – not to go to the beach one last time, but to make sure _he_ went back to the beach, the place where he could get away from the suffocating air of the Plimpton house and remember how to breathe. "I think maybe I should get into therapy."

"I love you," she breathes against his lips, turning to him, her hands on his face and forehead meeting his. "I love you, so much."


End file.
